


Unreasonable Men

by bearonthecouch



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Can't Let Go, First Love, Long-Distance Friendship, Longing, M/M, On-Again/Off-Again Relationship, Relationship Status: It's Complicated, Reunions, smut with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 00:04:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17011689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearonthecouch/pseuds/bearonthecouch
Summary: And they have both changed, but have they changed enough that they can't remember what it was like to need each other?





	Unreasonable Men

**Author's Note:**

> "The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man." - George Bernard Shaw

Maes hears the whispers about the State Alchemists far before he sees any real evidence of them. Rumors and wild stories precede them like a wave. Maes dismisses most of those tales as completely implausible, yet the reports keep coming in: A single man destroying whole neighborhoods with earth-shattering explosions. Fires that swallow the sky.

The Ishvalans they capture repeat the same word, which some translator says, when Maes asks, means “demon” or “devil.” The prisoners pray for deliverance and receive only death. Maes no longer feels any sympathy for them.

He's seen too many young soldiers with faces blasted off by Auregonian guns in the hands of Ishvalan rebels, seen too many bombs rigged to shatter Amestrian convoys, impaling good kids on sharp shards of metal and igniting gasoline fires that burn trapped and helpless eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds beyond recognition.

Hughes didn't start this war. He just wants it to end.

He just wants to go home.

_He just wants._

“You've changed,” Mustang whispers, after he's showed up out of nowhere and nearly gotten himself and Hughes killed. Who knows what would've happened if it weren't for the timely intervention of Roy's teacher's kid, who carries a sniper rifle now, and is some kind of guardian angel, apparently. Riza Hawkeye is nowhere to be seen now, though. Hughes is selfishly grateful. He and Mustang are complicated enough, all on their own. He nods, in response to Roy's astute observation. It's been years since he's seen Roy. It's been _years_. And seeing him again, here, now... it's worse than the letters he gets from Gracia, almost. Because Roy is _right here._ He's not something Maes has to close his eyes and imagine. He's not somewhere far away, both safe and unreal.

Maes tries to tell himself he hasn't thought about Roy in their years apart, that he hasn't wondered where he is or what he's doing. But he's lying. Maes never wanted to let go of Roy; it's the world that forced them apart.

“I missed you,” he says, which sounds pathetic, and honest, but Roy sucks in a breath as though he's hurt him. How messed up have things gotten, between them, that Roy might not have missed him, too? But Maes isn't surprised that Mustang went wandering off; it's what he does. He's not even surprised that he became a State Alchemist without telling anybody. Maes had to find out from Gracia, of all things, after she heard it on a radio report.

Maes has no idea where Mustang was in between there and here, then and now. All he knows is that, wherever it was, it wasn't Ishval. He looks Roy over, and the younger man looks sweaty and tired and uncertain and unsettled, but there's no mistaking the bulge in his pocket and the silver chain just barely visible trailing up from it, or the sharp red circles and triangles that make up the arrays on his soot-stained white gloves.

“You look...” Maes starts, but he just shrugs. Roy seems to squirm under his focused attention. “You've grown up,” is what he finally says. It's weird to think that Mustang might also have changed. It's terrifying to acknowledge that Roy too has the eyes of a killer.

And Maes isn't even sure what his face gives away, but Roy is still curled away from him, won't look him in the eye. He's afraid, Maes realizes, and he has seen that fear before. Mustang's always had nightmares, for as long as Hughes has known him. Hughes has yet to imagine a nightmare that can top their current reality, though.

Roy's eyes flicker toward his. “Hughes. I-”

“Mustang. _Please_.” And he has no idea what the hell he's asking for, some miracle, some chance to pretend he hasn't spent more than a year soaked in blood and barely clinging to survival. He's lonely, of course he is. They all are. There is nothing lonelier than war. And he doesn't even _care_ that he hasn't seen Roy since graduation; maybe that's part of the appeal. Because Mustang doesn't look different – not different enough. He's haunted, but his eyes aren't dead the way Maes' are. He still has fire in him. He's a _hero_ , more than human. If anyone can save Hughes, it's gotta be the Flame Alchemist, right?

But Roy just stares at him, slightly shocked, like he doesn't know how to do this. He doesn't belong here. Maes wants to pretend that neither of them do, but his knives fit comfortably in his hands and he no longer remembers what it's like to not be a killer. Roy's hands still shake before his fingers snap. Roy still looks at Maes and wants to be forgiven.

Maes saw the way Roy's hands clenched into tight fists as the other Alchemist, Major Kimblee, sat across the campfire and offered lazy taunts about the nature of war and the lies they tell themselves. Hawkeye bristled at the man's insinuations, and Mustang was on his feet instantly, ready to defend her. And Maes just watched carefully, caught between his old instinct to jump in on Mustang's side and the dark whispers born of years of being here that conceded to Kimblee's point of view. There's no moral high ground in this war. There isn't likely to be any kind of salvation. And the certainty that he has nothing to cling to but survival is grinding him down to nothing, day by day.

Hughes closes his eyes and tries to breathe, and Mustang watches him nervously and then grabs his hand, instinctively, squeezing gently, offering comfort through touch the same way Maes had in the days at the academy when Roy needed that kind of instant reassurance.

“Maes,” Roy whispers. And that one word – his _name_ – spells a thousand things to Hughes: 'I'm sorry.' And 'I'm here.'

And they have both changed, but have they changed enough that they can't remember what it was like to need each other? Maes used to tease Roy until he was laughing and crying and begging, used to hold him until he fell asleep, curled up against Maes' body. Roy used to give Maes everything he wanted.

Hughes is still holding his breath. He's so desperate to not be alone that he doesn't want to waste time with words. He can't remember the last time he touched someone without a weapon in his hand. He's keenly aware of the weight of his gun, strapped to his leg, and the sharpness of the knives slipped under his sleeves. Roy looks at him with dark eyes, but there's longing there. And Maes has always known what Roy wants, what he likes, how to keep him close. If Maes can keep Roy close, maybe there's a chance that he can return to some semblance of what life used to be. Roy still _feels_ , and _god,_ Maes needs to remember how to feel good. There's a desperate, hollow pit that's been ripping at Maes Hughes since his war began. It isn't fair to ask Roy to fill it, but Roy is _here,_ watching with silent caution as Maes pockets the letters delivered to him by a harried messenger. The letters fill Maes with longing, even before he's read them, but Mustang stands there alone and uncertain, and Gracia tries, but words on paper are barely enough; they never last for long. Roy looks at Maes, with his lower lip caught between his teeth and a furrow between his eyebrows.

And then one of Maes' hands is on Roy's chest and the other is tangled through his dark hair, and his chapped lips are pressed against Roy's and he is swallowed by the scent of sand and smoke.

When Roy breaks away his eyes are wide and shocked, but hungry, and he is panting for breath. He doesn't say anything, which Maes takes as permission to continue. He slips his hand under Roy's jacket and then starts working the garment off. Roy catches Maes' arm, and Maes' heart starts beating faster and his stomach sinks with the fear that Mustang's about to push him away.

 _Please_ , he begs silently, eyes closed, with Roy's warm, strong fingers still locked tight around his forearm.

“Hughes,” Roy says, and his voice is rough and ragged, but strong enough that Maes opens his eyes and _believes_ , in whatever Roy's about to say. Roy takes a deep breath as Maes watches, and tries to smile, and then his hand slides down Maes' arm until their fingers are tangled together again. The calluses on Maes' hand catch against the rough fabric of Roy's alchemy glove, but he gives Roy a smile that breaks through the exhaustion and the guilt that is the permanent emotional landscape of Ishval. And something like hope kindles within his chest. Roy smiles back, and Hughes breathes a sigh of relief.

Roy has been in camp for less than a day, which is barely long enough to figure out where his tent is supposed to be, let alone invite someone into it. But State Alchemists do get a few perks, and a modicum of privacy is one of them, and Maes isn't so much following Roy as pushing him forward, until they wind up surrounded by canvas walls that contain a rickety cot and a nondescript footlocker, and nothing else.

“Home sweet home, eh?” Maes asks.

“Shut up, Hughes.” Roy... orders? Maes snaps his mouth shut and looks quizzically at the younger man, who has never given him an order before in any context. But Major Mustang does not seem inclined to wield his new authority against Hughes. That tone of command, if it was ever really there, is gone in half a heartbeat.

Roy finishes removing his jacket and folds it carefully before setting it atop the footlocker. Maes cracks a smile. For being such a walking disaster in general, it's weird to remember that Roy is, usually, obsessively careful about keeping his stuff neat and tidy. Someone trained him well, before Hughes ever met him. Maes can pass inspection when he has to, and he keeps his _thoughts_ organized, but clothes end up in haphazard piles on the floor until someone forces him to do something about it. After he caught Roy trying to clean up after him a few times, he started trying a little harder. The habit hasn't entirely faded. Maes bites down on the ironic laughter that threatens to bubble up at the idea that Mustang might've been some kind of good influence on him.

Roy sits down on the cot, and the expression on his face is so desperate and familiar that Hughes' heart twists. Roy wants to be wanted. He has an almost compulsive need to win the approval of others. Luckily, Maes isn't all that hard to please.

And Roy seems to be trying – in that never-exactly-admitting-to-it way – to apologize for ghosting out of Maes' life as quickly and completely as possible, the moment graduation was over.

Maes sits down next to Mustang. Roy's bare arms are sweat-soaked and covered in grit. His hands are still wrapped in white cloth. He won't relax.

Maes sighs.

Roy shifts, holding his breath. And then he catches Maes' eye, and the look constitutes a question. The kiss Maes gives Roy, one hand cradling the back of his head, provides the closest thing to an answer that they're likely to find. Maes' hand drops to Roy's back, and his thumb strokes Roy's spine through his thin white undershirt. Even when the kiss ends, Roy doesn't pull away. He keeps looking to Maes for cues. He always has.

Maes hugs him close, nibbles at his ear, trails kisses down his neck, massages his stomach and then his thigh, until Roy is half sighing and half groaning and then whimpering Maes' name and begging for more. Maes concedes, slipping his fingers into the waistband of Roy's pants as Mustang works the belt loose. The garments end up tangled around Roy's ankles, until he's trying to kick his boots off in frustration, and failing, stymied by the knotted laces that keep them tightly tied to his feet.

Maes flips Roy onto the bed, boots and all. “Safer to keep your shoes on, anyway. There's scorpions and shit out here.” Roy rolls onto his side and then Maes lays down next to him. It's not like they're unused to cuddling in various states of undress. But it's not a simple thing to recreate the kinds of casual conversations that had sustained them through the academy. Maes had always done the majority of the talking, anyway. When he lapses into silence, Roy doesn't fill the hole. Instead, he turns over onto his stomach and balances himself on his elbow before reaching out to start peeling off Maes' shirt. Hughes holds his breath, but he doesn't protest or stop him. Within seconds, Hughes' heavy blue jacket is balled up under Roy's hand, and the previously concealed knives are now clearly obvious, strapped to his arm. Between the knives and the gloves Roy's still wearing, they could do a whole lot of damage to each other, if they wanted to. But they trust each other more than they trust the idea of going defenseless, in this place where Maes even sleeps with his boots on, half the time; where they could've been killed just this morning. Roy pretends the knives aren't even there. He runs his hand lightly down Maes' bare chest and stomach. Maes' nipple hardens as Roy's fingers skip over it, and he shivers as goosebumps spring up on his skin. It doesn't take Roy long to find the ugly, scarred-over bullet hole northeast of Maes' belly button.

“Holy shit, Hughes,” he breathes, as his thumb circles the wound. Maes pushes him off, pushes him down, and runs his hand up Roy's bare leg. Mustang shivers and squirms as Hughes lifts his hips, and then he gets his knees under him, and his legs are spread, and Hughes cradles him against his chest with one arm while tucks a loose strand of Mustang's hair behind his ear with his free hand.

It feels like this is an important point of no return. It's not like they've never done this before – they used to do exactly this kind of thing all the time. They have done sex often enough for Maes to know exactly how to make it feel unbelievably good, for him and Mustang both. And it has been years since Maes has felt anything other than pain and loneliness and terror. But just because he wants it doesn't mean Roy does, even if the younger man's stiff erection is pointing out from between his legs and he's practically rutting against Maes' gentle hold.

“Shh, Mustang,” Maes whispers, into Roy's ear. Roy stills. Maes rests a finger against the other man's asshole and listens as he sucks in a breath. Maes breathes too, in and out, slow and careful. “We can still stop,” he points out.

Roy shakes his head frantically and bites out an “I'll kill you” and then a whimpered “Please, Hughes, I just want...” within the same broken sentence, and Maes pushes in one finger and then two, slowly drawing out the pleasure as Roy melts beneath him, rocking back and forth on hands and knees. They take a break for just long enough for Hughes to go rummaging around in Roy's footlocker for the supplies neatly tucked away in there with all of the major's well-organized gear. He finds the little container of lube hidden from casual first glance, but Hughes isn't surprised at all that Roy's prepared for this. There's even a few sex toys that will probably become interesting later. Hughes doesn't ask about those, and Mustang doesn't explain them. Like the weapons they carry, their presence matters but the reasons for their close proximity are best left unsaid. In this brief wartime reunion, Maes just wants to pretend that Mustang belongs only to him. Roy's wordless reactions make it easy to cling to that illusion.

Roy's breathing quickens as Maes enters him. He rocks his hips as Maes thrusts, but Hughes forces him to slow down, makes the whole process drawn out and infuriating. Roy's hands curl into fists that slam against the taut fabric of the cot. But Maes takes a free hand and places it atop Roy's flattening it, running his thumb over Roy's glove-covered knuckles. Roy whimpers as Maes fucks him slowly, pushing deeper and then almost pulling out, as Roy trembles and whines. The agonizing anticipation takes his breath away. By the time Maes finishes inside him, Roy practically collapses in his arms. Maes holds him, kisses him, and breathes his name. But he also gently pushes him aside after a few moments, so that he can sit up on the edge of the cot and fix his pants and grab for the jacket that Roy's kicked half off of the small bed. The fragile safety they found with each other is already nearly gone. Roy gets up too, standing up completely and pulling up his pants with one hand as he uses the other to throw Hughes his shirt.

They stand there staring at each other, marked by the scars of war in this too-close, too-hot canvas shelter. “I have to go,” Hughes says, as he buttons his military coat. Mustang nods. Just outside they can hear clanging bells and trumpeting bugles repeating wordless commands that are no less urgent or optional for sounding almost like music. Captain Hughes actually has a few dozen good Amestrian kids looking directly to him to keep them alive. Unlike Major Mustang, who takes orders far more often than he gives them, and almost always works alone.

“Hughes, just... be careful. Okay?”

Hughes waits for one long heartbeat, then two. He flashes a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, but he breathes easier than he has for years. “'Course. I'm always careful.” He fiddles with the glasses on his face, and Mustang watches as he stumbles out into the desert night. The tent flap closes behind Hughes and the grit-choked, painfully dry air makes him cough.

He watches the fires on the horizon and reads his mail, and when Roy asks him why he fights, the answer never changes. “Because I don't want to die.” (And “we've changed.” And “I miss you.”)

It's not that Hughes never expected Roy Mustang to grow up. It's just he's probably the only one who can look at the infamous Flame Alchemist and see a sixteen-year-old kid who talks in his sleep and has near-crippling test anxiety. He sees the eighteen-year-old who stood up in front of a _general_ and demanded that “be thou for the people” was supposed to be for the whole damn military and not just for alchemists, and when Maes asked him that night in bed if that was actually true, Roy just rolled over and said he had no idea, but didn't it sound like it _should_ be true?

And Roy is flaying himself alive with his own guilt, and he cries when Maes fucks him, and even still, there is something inside him that is _still changing_ , hardening, transmuting itself as Hughes watches. His soft eyes scan the battlefield and he sees what _should be true_. He follows orders, but with every fire he lights, he's keeping score, making plans, trying to remake the whole world in his own image. Maybe it's an alchemist thing, probably it should be terrifying. But when Roy Mustang looks up at the Fuhrer with murder in his eyes and declares his intention to go straight to the top, no matter what, Maes just shrugs and falls in beside him. Below him. Whichever.

“You're gonna need someone to help you,” Maes says simply. Roy looks at him like the idea had never occurred to him. “Honestly, Mustang,” Hughes sighs. “What the hell would you do without me?” Roy smiles shyly.

Captain Hughes and his unit are sent home via East, weeks apart from Mustang and the other Alchemists being shipped directly to Central. By the time they meet again, in the unseasonably warm spring that's too much like the desert, Maes is about to get married and Roy's stubbornly refusing to talk about fire, and Maes has heard rumors that the about-to-be lieutenant colonel is drinking enough to take a risk with that very promotion.

He corners Roy in the men's room outside of the makeshift office where Mustang's been sorting through a year's worth of backlogged paperwork that's apparently been waiting for any qualified alchemist willing to take it on since before Ishval. Maes kisses Roy, tongue down his throat, for the first time since the war, and he unzips Roy's pants at least enough to feel him getting hard, and Roy – perfect, predictable Roy – doesn't protest at all. And Maes is breathing heavy and flushed with want, but after he jerks Roy off quickly, he pulls away and splashes his face and says, “Fuck, Mustang. Don't throw this all away.” Roy stares at him, open-mouthed, but nods.

“You need someone who understands you,” Maes had said. So he goes out with Mustang to the bar but doesn't let him drink (much). And he lets Roy stand by his side at his wedding, to let go or bear witness, or something in between. And they lay side by side on the floor of Hughes' bedroom one night while a pregnant Gracia's off visiting her parents, looking up at invisible stars, and when Roy, who has been mostly-sober for over a year, announces that he's about to be promoted again, Maes just smiles an 'I told you so' smile and takes Roy's hand in his.

Roy sits up and then Maes does too, and this time when they kiss it's a fluttering, fragile thing.

And Roy is gone before Gracia returns, and it's days before Hughes works up the nerve to call him in East City. He blabbers on for hours, about work and pregnancy books and the new Xingese place that's opened up near HQ, and he even polls Mustang's opinion on whether or not he should re-establish contact with his old man; he talks about whatever he can think of, anything and everything. It's well past midnight when Mustang hangs up the phone.

Hughes squeezes his eyes shut as he listens to the dial tone.

And he still _wants_.

 


End file.
